Dead Bishops Don't Lie, page 18
“Very well then, let’s get down to business. I’m told you have a letter concerning me, is that correct?”
“What letter?” She searched for what to say next.
“Please,” he said, extending his right hand, “your father’s letter.”
“I have no such letter,” replied Nicola, feeling her knees begin to shake.
“In that case, we have a problem, you see. If that letter falls into the wrong hands, I’m told it could prove, shall we say, upsetting. I really, really hate being upset. High blood pressure, you know. At my age, my doctor says I must be careful.”
A large smile had overtaken the earlier embarrassment and spread all over his wide oval face. She could guess how this almost-charming character had risen to where he was. There was something vaguely attractive in the stocky figure, the slightly graying temples, the surprisingly fine features, and the expertly cut hair.
Oleyev was handed Nicola’s satchel. He opened and rummaged through the satchel. “Now, where is this letter?” Oleyev drew closer, his face threatening.
Nicola hunched her shoulders.
“Wrong answer,” he yelled, as he struck her across the face with the back of his right hand.
“You bastard. You killed Sergei,” she shouted.
He hit her again twice, as she recoiled.
“Trash, nothing but trash, a hired assassin. I have dozens like him.”
“And I suppose you’re not?”
He was about to strike her again, but stopped in mid-swing. “We won’t get anywhere like this, will we?” he said.
She didn’t reply.
“Does the FSB have this letter?”
“Honestly, I don’t know,” replied Nicola.
“Yes, you do, and they have it. You’re smart enough to have given it to them if you had it.”
Nicola had a brain wave. “If the FSB have it, then why aren’t they here already?”
Oleyev was taken aback. The FSB was not known to be slow on the trigger.
“Good point,” said Oleyev, pacing near the footstool in his leotard, white tights, and effeminate deerskin shoes. His face changed again, back to the broad, oval smile.
“Then you have seen it.”
She was caught. She felt her face flush, and as blood rushed to her head, she had another idea. Why not tell the truth? Oleyev couldn’t get at it without her written authorization anyway. “It’s in my safety deposit box, at the Vinogourov Bank.”
“Ah, that’s better,” said Oleyev, the smile increasing even more. “Now we are getting somewhere.”
Nicola thought, why isn’t the FSB here, arresting this thug?
“We’ll have to get it, won’t we? And it better be there, Nicola Va-si-lie-va.” He pounded every syllable of her name. “Now, let’s have some tea, shall we?” he said, suddenly as docile as a cocker spaniel.
At least I’m buying time from this psychopath, she thought. The FSB will surely realize something is wrong if I don’t show up at the airport tomorrow.
Chapter 52
Legnano left the library and walked briskly to the gardens. He needed fresh air. He felt depressed, overwhelmed by what he had heard. He had sought guidance in his dilemma and had come out of the meeting with more questions than answers.
How to interpret the pope’s reaction? Was he upset by the memory of Salvador and Conti? By the fact he couldn’t name the assassins? Why did he react at the mention of Miranda? De Ségur must be one of the penitents. Or was he troubled by the inevitable, looming scandal? He certainly knew about Miranda. How much did he know about the donations
Legnano couldn’t help but think the unthinkable. Yet his message had been clear: let the law take its course. At all costs? He chastised himself for even thinking of the pope being involved. The Church was still reeling from the Banco Ambrosiano scandal, and another was rearing its ugly head.
* * *
Dulac and Lescop were about to board their twice-delayed flight to Paris when Dulac’s cell rang.
“Dulac.”
“Mr. Dulac, this is Cardinal Legnano’s office. I will pass you his Eminence. Please hold,” said the cardinal’s secretary.
“Mr. Dulac, this is Cardinal Legnano. I have some matters I’d like to discuss with you. When could we meet?”
“I am available tomorrow afternoon,” said a pleasantly surprised Dulac. He hadn’t counted on any of the Vatican’s representatives being so forthcoming. Was one about to breach Omerta, the Vatican’s Code of Silence?
“Let’s say one p.m. at my office?”
“With pleasure, your Eminence.”
* * *
After receiving Legnano’s call, Dulac immediately canceled his meeting with Karen and the France 2 interviewers. Back at his apartment, he poured a Pernod, threw himself into the reclining chair, and lit a cigarette. I must stop soon, he thought. His doctor had recently noticed the shortening of his breath, the first sign of emphysema. Finishing his refilled drink, he reserved his ticket to Rome, repacked his suitcase, set the alarm for 9:30 a.m., and dozed off into a heavy sleep.
* * *
“Good afternoon, Mr. Dulac,” said Legnano, grasping Dulac’s hand with both of his. “How was your flight?”
“Pleasantly uneventful,” replied Dulac.
“Please,” Legnano invited him to the worn leather L-shaped sofa.
Legnano sat diagonally opposite and adjusted the red fascia around his waist.
“Mr. Dulac, I have been reviewing some of the donations the Vatican receives and I’m very concerned.” The cardinal’s furrowed brow and worried look gave emphasis to his statement. He continued, “For the last year, a donor has been giving five million US dollars per month directly to the Vatican treasury. This is an unusually high amount to be given on such a regular basis.”
“I see.”
“We had our audit firm produce a report on the provenance of such gift. The Holy See is particularly sensitive about such donations since the bank scandal.”
“Yes of course. Do you have the identity of this donor?”
“The Miranda Group.”
Dulac stared, dumbfounded, at Legnano. Finally regaining his composure, he asked, “You’re saying that Miranda Group, headed by de Ségur has been giving five million a month to the Vatican for the past year?”
“Yes. Here is a report on the Group prepared by Casparelli, from our auditing firm.”
Dulac leafed through the pages, his nicotine-stained right hand trembling slightly.
“Interesting. The Marchioness of Dorset sits on the board, as does Archbishop Fiore.”
“That was my reaction. Also, de Ségur is a Cathar. It doesn’t make sense.”
Dulac handed the report back to Legnano and said, “Your Eminence, you must know that we are investigating the marchioness in relation to the Eastland vessel scandal. We’ve caught the captain of her vessel trying to smuggle $5.2 million into Italy from Isola Rossa. We have evidence it happened monthly for the past year.”
“Mannaggia la Miseria!” said Legnano, throwing up his hands.
“There’s more. Someone overheard a conversation between de Ségur and the marchioness about the murders, and about the Pistis Sophia letter.”
“Who?” exclaimed Legnano.
“It’s not important at this time.” Dulac thought there was no need to implicate Karen. “Anything else, your Eminence?”
“We tried in vain to find out about the numbered Swiss company, majority shareholder of Miranda.”
No wonder thought Dulac. Only the Swiss are more secretive than the Vatican.
“Do you have information on the provenance of the Pistis Sophia letter?” asked Legnano.
“We’re sure it was painted by the illuminator who does the marchioness’s private letterhead, but he’s disappeared.” Dulac reclined in the sofa and crossed his arms. “Monsignor, how does Archbishop Fiore fit into all of this?”
* * *
Legnano looked at Dulac slightly askance. His brief exchanges with Archbishop Fiore in the investigation of the finance committee, and in the murder investigation, had left him uneasy. He was still unsure as to Archbishop Fiore’s trustworthiness. But the Vatican always put on a unified, secretive front before outsiders. “He represents the Vatican for some of its investments,” replied Legnano.
“Your Eminence, I presume he’s under a lot of pressure to maximize the Vatican’s financial performance?”
Legnano hesitated, then said, “I’m not at liberty to say.”
“I understand,” replied Dulac, knowing it was useless to probe further. “In any case, your Eminence, all this is most helpful.”
“Yes…I thought—”
Dulac’s cell phone rang. “Excuse me, your Eminence.” He took the call.
“Petrov here. We can’t wait, we arrest Oleyev.”
“If you must,” said Dulac, resignation in his voice.
“We think he has Nicola. She didn’t pick up her ticket for Canada, and she didn’t show up at her apartment.”
“Not good. Remember Petrov, we need Oleyev and Nicola alive.”
Chapter 53
Drained and tense, Nicola rose from her bed in one of the gaudy guest rooms, wondering what would become of her when Oleyev got hold of her father’s letter in the safety deposit box. But first, he had to either get her power of attorney or escort her to the bank to open the box. I’ve got to delay that. Ironic, she thought, that now she hoped the FSB would pick up her trail, and quickly.
While she showered in the pink granite bathroom, dark thoughts assailed her tired brain. With the FSB on his back, can Oleyev afford another disappearance, another murder? Ha! This man stops at nothing. One more, one less, what’s the difference? Toweling herself dry, she went to the bedroom and dressed quickly.
As she looked out the window at the wooded area below, the hope of escape crossed her mind briefly, only to be quashed by the presence of two patrolling armed guards. Disheartened, Nicola exited the bedroom, descended the long spiraling staircase, and entered the breakfast room. Seated at the table, a bespectacled Oleyev, still in his dressing gown, was already busy, telephone in hand, giving orders to one of his sidekicks. Another was busy sorting out the voluminous stack of morning newspapers for his boss. He glanced briefly at Nicola and turned to the taller of his sidekicks. “Bring me the power of attorney,” he said.
“Yes, Mr. Oleyev.”
“Hello, Vasilieva, sleep well?”
She didn’t like being called by her last name. It reminded her of the impersonality of her professors at grade school, where she had been treated as an inconvenient encumbrance to be dealt with as mechanically and expeditiously as possible. Was this how he distanced himself from the human being he was about to destroy?
“As well as possible,” she answered curtly.
“Let’s get down to business. Sign this.” He thrust the power of attorney across the table, and the shorter sidekick offered a pen.
Gathering all of her courage she blurted, “No thanks.”
“Well, now really, Vasilieva,” said Oleyev, smiling at the taller goon. “I know you’re a lot smarter than that. How long do you think you can last?”
“You need me to open that box. If I sign that paper, I’m dead.”
“You’re right,” said an obviously amused Oleyev, putting down his newspaper, crossing his hands behind his head and reclining in the swivel chair. “Do you have another suggestion, Vasilieva?”
“Yes, I go down to the bank with your ape here and get the letter for you.”
“And after that?”
“I’m leaving the country. I won’t be a threat to you.”
“I have a better idea,” said Oleyev. “Why don’t I hand you over to my ape, as you call him, and let him do what he wants with you? I’m sure he and his friends are very imaginative.”
Raw fear seized her heart. She knew he wasn’t bluffing. Torture and rape were the mafia’s stock and trade. She had a last, desperate card to play, “Listen, if my boyfriend doesn’t see me at the airport tomorrow, I’ve told him to contact the FSB and open that box. They’ll be onto you in an instant.”
Oleyev smiled, leaned forward, and put his hands back down on the desk. “Well, well, if what you say is true, Nicola, then we must keep you in one piece,” he said. He turned towards the shorter sidekick, “Get me her satchel.”
“Yes, sir.” After a moment, the sidekick returned and handed it to Oleyev.
He opened the satchel and dumped its contents onto the breakfast table. A small key, separate from her keychain, fell out.
“Is this the key to the box?”
“Yes.” replied Nicola.
At that moment, a guard erupted into the room, went straight to Oleyev’s side, and whispered into his ear. Oleyev’s face turned crimson.
“Bastards, fucking bastards.” He rose and pounded the rear wall with his right fist. “I’ll piss on your graves.” He took two steps around the desk and hit Nicola in the face, hard. “Lying bitch, you’ll pay for this.”
Nicola fell backwards on the floor, as she felt her upper lip swell, and tasted the blood.
“Get her out of here,” he yelled to the goons.
Nicola knew the FSB were on their way. I’ve got to survive until then.
Chapter 54
The morning after his meeting with Legnano, Dulac picked up Karen to go to the offices of France 2 TV. “Someone at Miranda Group is behind the murders, not Pistis Sophia,” said Dulac, weaving the Renault in and out of the heavy traffic.
“Then that confirms what I heard at Isola Rossa,” said Karen.
“The marchioness is laundering money for them. They’re reinvesting it in Miranda’s real estate holdings.” Dulac veered hard right without signaling ,and nearly hit a crossing pedestrian. “Wait for the light, idiot,” he shouted, as the man gave him the finger.
“Where does the money come from?” said Karen.
“We don’t know yet, probably South America. I’m having Miranda investigated.”
“But how is this related to the murderers?”
“Hopefully, we’ll find out from my Swiss friends at Badon Bank.”
They approached the France 2 headquarters, and Dulac sensed a growing uneasiness in Karen as she swept her honey blond hair repeatedly from her face.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Fine, fine,” she replied nervously.
Dulac was sure she knew the consequences of identifying de Ségur. His cell phone rang and he snatched it from his right pocket, “Dulac.”
“Lescop. They found Dessault’s body in the Seine about three hours ago.”
“How?”
“Not sure, but there is a mark on the right side of his neck. We’re having the autopsy done now.”
“Let me know.”
Dulac turned to Karen. “The marchioness’s illuminator, Dessault, was murdered.”
* * *
“God, the poor man,” said Karen, as she felt the assassins’ coils growing tighter.
Dulac parked the Renault illegally, and they entered France 2’s lavish offices. After completing the registration formalities, they entered the viewing room and Karen felt her pulse quickening, the events of that unforgettable night tumbling uncontrollably into her consciousness. Maybe I’ve forgotten the voice by now. The technician turned on the television screen, the interviewer came into focus, and, as he introduced his guests, the camera turned onto de Ségur.
“Good evening, Mr. de Ségur.”
“Good evening.”
Karen knew, at that instant, that she couldn’t escape, couldn’t go back, and that she had no control, no idea what awaited her. She listened distractedly, and Dulac finally turned to her.
“Well?”
“It’s him.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
Karen and Dulac went downstairs and got into the Renault. Dulac turned on the ignition, turned to her and said, “Karen, I didn’t tell you this before because I wanted you to be sure, but we had de Ségur’s recent travels investigated. He flew to Isola Rossa and back last week in his private jet.”
Chapter 55
Lord Hawkins’s phone rang. “Good morning, Marchioness,” answered Hawkins.
“Lord Hawkins, I wonder if I may go over some corporate matters with you this morning at your office, say ten a.m.?”
“That would be fine, Marchioness.”
Hawkins knew the marchioness well enough to know that she wouldn’t have asked to see him concerning corporate matters.
“Good of you to come, Marchioness.” he said when she arrived, greeting her in the oak paneled lobby.
“Lord Hawkins.” Dressed in an impeccably cut cream-colored Gaultier suit, she extended her downturned right hand.
Hawkins led the way down the corridor to the boardroom and entered, “Please, Lady Sarah.” He invited her to one of the leather chairs around the oval mahogany table. “What can we do for you this morning?” Hawkins said, seating himself at the head of the table.
“I’m afraid I should have given you more information during our last meeting, you know, about this Pistis Sophia letter business.”
“I see.”
“My personal letterhead is prepared by the same illuminator who did the Pistis Sophia letter. André Dessault was his name.”
“Was?”
“The police found his body in the Seine yesterday. It was in the newspapers this morning.”
“Awful,” replied Hawkins, feigning compassion.
“Dulac might think I had something to do with it; he’s inferring that I had that letter drafted.”
“Well, surely this is an unfortunate coincidence.” Hawkins put on one of his many masks of reassurance.
“Exactly, but you see, someone is doing this deliberately, to try and frame me in this whole sordid affair.”
“Who do you think that could be?”
